


Education is my Division

by Dyebone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9293024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyebone/pseuds/Dyebone
Summary: An unusual case brings to life hidden desires.Or: In which Lestrade teaches Mycroft the art of shagging and its benefits to the mind and body.





	

Mycroft thought, and not for the first time, that a crime scene resembled nothing so much as a disturbed ant mound. They scurried here and there, like blind insects searching for faint trails to lead them back to their attacker.

The bustle, the noise, the utter...inefficiency of it all disgusted him. However did Sherly stand it for more than a few minutes? This was entirely why he left the manual labor to his brother, choosing to bend his mind to work in an arena far more...refined. 

His fingers tapped a light rhythm on the handle of the umbrella, the earlier misting rain having faded away with the sun. The revolving gleam of police beacons splashed on the puddles and across concrete and asphalt, shimmering against the barred windows of neary shops, and dimly illuminated the girl.

The girl. 

Woman really. A librarian, so he had deduced rather easily, one arm outflung and the other tucked beneath her, right leg bent at the knee and sagging to the side enough to hitch her short skirt slightly higher. 

That was the first in a long line of inconsistencies with this scene, not that any of the blind ant-men around her would likely notice. The librarian’s personal hygiene had been exemplary--carefully trimmed and clean nails, style in the hair, a touch of subtle contouring and color from cosmetics, the faint stain of toothpaste on a blouse sleeve--yet her legs had only been shaved to the knee while the skirt ended just below the line of her underwear.

The clothes she wore had not been her choice. 

Mycroft pursed his lips. The implication would be lost on most, but this message had not been intended for these dim-witted lawmen or even his flamboyant brother. The killer or killers simply wanted him to know that they had worked out the ruse, and rather more quickly than he had suspected. 

Admiration crowded out the faint chagrin. And determination. 

He caught himself clenching his teeth and relaxed his jaw. His eyes swept over the scene once more, memorizing and cataloging every detail. The train of his thoughts, however, slipped a rail as he found his gaze caught and held by steel-gray eyes.

Amidst all the rush and busy motion, this man stood like captain of a sinking ship, hand on the rudder, unswayed. 

Mycroft sighed as he approached, smiling slightly and shifting his stance casual, uninterested. 

“Well, I see Sherlock is not the only Holmes with a nose for murder.”

“Good evening to you too, Inspector,” Mycroft tapped the pointed tip of his umbrella against the damp concrete. “I am only a passerby. I do not share my brother’s deep love for the...macabre.”

“My arse,” Lestrade snapped. Mycroft arched a brow but the inspector had only paused for a breath. “There is something peculiar about this and, once again, I find you involved. Christ, do you think I’m blind?”

“I believe you are mistaken, Inspector.” He tipped his head slightly to the black sedan sitting parked, plumes of smoke issuing in quiet puffs from the tail pipe as his driver waited. “I observed the lights and lingered just this once. I was...mm, curious...what my brother sees in this.”

Lestrade snorted, nostrils flaring briefly and rather uncomfortably like a hound catching whiff of a delightful scent. “And now you’re lying.” He shrugged his shoulders, their width straining the confines of the jacket he had confined them to. “First physical appearance, sure. But third murder--third time I’ve found your prints all over things. So to speak.”

Mycroft started slightly and then veiled it with a subtle cough. “Three murders? It seems perhaps you should call my brother in after all. He, at least, is slightly more competent.”

“Sherlock is arse-deep in another case. And certainly will not trample on your territory. Which this is.” Lestrade dipped his fingers into his shirt pocket.

“I do hope you are not intending to try to arrest me,” Mycroft began, scorn in his tone.

The inspector snorted again, fingers appearing again clutching a small pouch which he revealed to contain cigarettes and a lighter. “Might as well arrest the Government.”

“Indeed.” 

“First murder,” the inspector began, tapping the end of the cigarette against his open palm. “The woman was shot. Dumped out in a field. Tyre tracks were laid down hours after the murder, hours before we arrived. Untraceable. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose you have this fanciful notion that I left London just to view a dead woman’s body?”

Lestrade cocked his head like a puppy listening to a faraway sound. “The next one has her hands bound. Broken phone wedged in the bonds. Dangling from a beam in an abandoned mine.” His gray eyes darted to Mycroft’s face, studying him. “Background files on her had already been accessed.”

“Really quite fascinating. The leaps of logic your people attempt to make.” He turned half-away. “I really must be going. Good luck with your...investigation, Inspector.”

“This third one, though, she’s different from the other two.” The flick of a lighter’s flame. Mycroft excused his blink to the flare of unexpected brightness. “This one someone bothered to dress up. It’s a rather pointed distinction.” He inhaled deeply and then blew out a quick puff of tobacco smoke. “And now here you are, more present than ever.”

“Three distinctive murders hardly bespoke a pattern.”

“It’s the same bloke.” He inhaled anew, blew out his circle of gray mist. “We’ll be in touch, Holmes.”

“That is unlikely,” Mycroft assured him and walked smartly away, heels tapping on the road. 

As the driver hurried to open the door and he bent to enter, footsteps rapped hurriedly behind. He sat on his seat and swiveled his gaze up just as Lestrade pushed his upper torso into the space there. Mycroft caught a whiff of something sweet and musky, a cologne perhaps, chased by cigarette smoke and coffee grounds. 

“Where’s Anthea?” Lestrade asked. The question was rhetorical; the gleam in his eyes danced with triumph.

“Not in this car, as you have brilliantly deduced,” Mycroft said dryly, and pressed his hand against one of the broad shoulders. There was little give beneath the pressure and he increased the force of it, feeling the inspector’s muscles flexing as he resisted being moved. Their eyes met anew and Lestrade’s narrowed. Abruptly, he relaxed but with his gaze boring into Mycroft; a relent of choice and not force.

“Do give my regards to my brother, won't you?" Mycroft said. And closed the door. After a moment’s thought as the motor purred into life, he locked it. 

< >


End file.
